


Elves, Fae and everything else

by Doitsuki



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Betrayal, Colosseum-type things, Drugs, Elves, Espionage, Fae & Fairies, Food Kink, Hair Kink, Imprisonment, M/M, Master/Pet, Minor Original Character(s), Murder Mystery, Ok lets do this, Reincarnation, Shrinking, Slavery, Sports, Stalking, Suspension Of Disbelief, That's basically what this is, Weird Shit, dubcon, idk - Freeform, imagine one of those card battle games but with elves, later plot, prepare your anus, smol characters, this was private lemao there are kinks bye, weight kink IF YOU SQUINT, yey spies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-20 18:16:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4797398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doitsuki/pseuds/Doitsuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some time in the Seventh Age, Arda is a country in the center of Europe. With its unique people and races some consider to be alternate species of humankind, it is a place where elves are reborn without memories of their lives in the Undying Lands. Those who would have gone insane in the Blessed Realm now live fulfilling lives in these modern times, and act a little differently due to the absence of certain memories (they shape who you are!).<br/>Also in Arda are Fae, seen by the world as curious little fairy things that shouldn't really exist. These are the Elves who never went West. Suspension of disbelief required. :D</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Anon wanted secret fic. Here is something I put my heart and soul into in my own time, and generally enjoy writing. This is pretty repetitive and farfetched tho, but if you like tiny elves tho this is the fic for you ;)  
> Common themes: Strong characters being imprisoned/belittled, forced memory loss, the kinks you see in the tags, altered mental states through use of various consumable items, SPORTS

It is late in Summer when Elrond goes walking in the forests near his home. In the city of Rivendell, vast multi-coloured trees line every street along with a few mushrooms and flowers. Elrond cares not for the business of urban life, preferring to wander with his eyes turned to nature. It is so much more _peaceful_ that way, he thinks. He must walk far to reach the Trollshaws, but it is worth it. There is so little untouched wilderness in the world these days that he treasures what is left.Rumoured to house all sorts of mythical creatures (most of them quite fearsome), the Trollshaws are not often explored but Elrond doesn’t mind. He quite enjoys having the sounds of people absent, as they are so often everywhere in his life.

On this fine day, he wears a loose white shirt with dark grey pants. Something like business attire ensures he will not be picked up by the job-recruitment agencies that are always on the lookout for unemployed folk. More often than not, innocent middle-aged people get caught enjoying their lives and when unable to produce proof of employment, receive a mandatory summons to the Community Offices. Everyone must work once they are out of school. The economy of Arda is a fragile thing.

Thoughts of society and its ways are far from Elrond’s mind as he strolls along the thick grassy path along the forest floor. Here and there he spies caves with signs of life in them, beasts of all sorts having left their tracks nearby. He wonders if a night-time visit will allow him the sight of rare and elusive things like goblins and orcs, so he can see whether or not they are as nasty as the books say. He has read much and believed little of what ancient lore tells of the races. Elves exist all over the world, as do Men and to a lesser extent, Dwarves. There are no dark lords or frightening wraiths, much less brutal warriors born of torment and sludge. Elrond thinks of how wonderful it is that there are no fictional dangers in the world today, with the most terrifying thing being a lack of money or means of survival. Elrond has no job but enough money to get by and oh, he mustn’t think of it now. No, he does not like to worry when on his little walks. Away with the thoughts of Orcs and modern life. Here is a nice little glade for him to sit in, with warm sunshine beaming onto the lush green grass. He spies a broken circle of pebbles a few meters from his feet and pauses.

 _‘A faery-circle? Just like in the books… but it looks a little off.’_ Unwilling to disturb the circle, he bends and takes a closer look. Between two rocks, one a sandy tan and the other light grey, a soft glow peeks out. Curiosity overwhelms Elrond in that split second and it only takes a moment for him to pick up one pebble, nearly dropping it in surprise. There, curled in a little ball is a being so small it is no bigger than Elrond’s hand. With long silver-blonde hair blanketing its body, the faery is nude as all other creatures of the wild are. Yet as Elrond stares, it does not move. He takes a closer look, placing his pebble near another in the circle. The faery appears male with a flat chest and miniscule anatomy, the glow of his slender body fading with every passing second. A pearlescent shimmer coats his face and what smells like sugary syrup has dried on his flesh in a thick layer of red. _Blood._

It is the desire of Elrond’s heart to help those in need and the sight of such a beautiful creature shivering and broken does not seem like something that should exist. When he moves to scoop the faery into his hand he feels a slight warmth against his skin. _There is still hope._

 

~

 

Upon reaching his home on the seventh floor of Edhel Apartments, Elrond opens his hand to check on the faery. Awake and barely alive, it whimpers in pain. Elrond sets it on his kitchen table, leaving for a moment to find a magnifying glass so he can see what is going on. He is not used to looking at such tiny things and wonders what he can do to help. Elves and Fae speak different languages, although some research suggests they once spoke the same. Luckily, Elrond understands Sindarin and will make an attempt to communicate. When he returns, he notices the faery has spread itself out to lie in a pile of nearby tissues.

“Ah…” He begins to say something, trying to recall the ancient tongue he’d studied only once in high school. “Are you alright?”

The faery has little strength to lift his head and doesn’t even bother.

 _‘I shall die here,_ ’ he thinks. _‘Away from my father, my forest, and the life I once knew. Oh, I do hope the afterlife is kind.’_

“Hey…” Elrond pulls up a chair, wincing as it screeches across the polished wooden tiles. “Let me have a look at you.” On the table aside from tissues is a glass of water, a few cotton swabs and a pencil. The eraser end of the pencil is a little smaller than one of the faery’s hands, but Elrond figures it will be easier than using his fingers for movement. With the pencil in hand, he nudges the faery out of the tissues. Most of its golden glow is all but gone and Elrond finds his first task fairly obvious: remove all the blood. Using the pencil and a damp cotton swab, he rubs gently at the thick redness all over the faery’s body.

 _‘What has this little thing been doing, to get himself so bloodied and weak? Fae do not fight amongst themselves, if the legends are correct. They only will if they are ordered to do so… by their masters.’_   Elrond knows perfectly well how Fae are supposed to behave, as do many folk. Fae are bought and sold and many books have been written about them – the tiny people who will beat each other senseless if they love their owners enough. Elrond finds it a little upsetting that such beautiful creatures must go through pain for human and elven entertainment. Many times he has seen hunters in the Trollshaws looking for Fae, to capture then sell to potential battlers. That is what they call themselves, these Masters of Fair Folk. Battlers, Warlords, Grand Strategists. All fancy titles for the people who pit life against life in the competitions known as Enlightenment. Fae-fighting has been touted as a sport for the more intelligent people in the world, with its complex rules and flowery descriptive terms. But to Elrond, it is little more than organized brutality. It saddens him, and angers his friend Erestor, who actively protests against Enlightenment whenever he can. It is not ‘watching two beings ascend to a higher plane of existence’. It is _wrong_. So he says, and invites Elrond to come to protest rallies with him. Elrond always declines. Confrontation is not his favourite weekend activity.

Now on his table he has a specimen of the Fair Folk, a rather strange-looking one at that. Somewhat clean and still exhausted, the faery lies on his back with a hazy look in his eyes. His thick, dark eyebrows contrast against his pale flesh and his high cheekbones are more reminiscent of a male elf’s facial features than that of an androgynous faery. His ears are also not as long as those of his species Elrond has seen – once again they are more elf-like than anything else. This worries him.

_‘Could the hypotheses be true… that Fae are actually Elven in descent? They’re so small… That can’t be right. But this one… why, he looks like an elf.’_

“Are you… an elf or a faery?” Elrond speaks as softly as he can, afraid to receive an answer. The faery holds up one finger. When Elrond asks “Elf?” for confirmation, the faery- no, _elf_ musters a nod.

“Alright then, ah… are you hurt anywhere?” Elrond gestures with the eraser end of his pencil at the elf’s tiny body. The elf only closes his eyes, an arm draped across his stomach. The movement of his hand gestures to a mark on his thigh, which has a deep purple bruise from being crushed under a rock. Elrond knows how to heal, being trained in the scholarly and medical arts which he admittedly does not get many opportunities to practice. He steels his nerves and focusses all his thoughts into the fingertip of his left hand. Then he whispers under his breath. Words in Quenya flow smooth and liquid from his thin, pale lips. It is an invigorating chant that runs along flesh and seeps into muscle to draw out what pain lives deep inside. The tiny elf feels the larger one work and thinks to himself _how strange it is that not all the big folk are to be wary of._

When Elrond is done he looks over the elf and cannot see any other signs of injury. Still, he places a charm of general wellbeing about the creature and picks him up in his hand. The elf catches sight of something to the right and stares with such intensity that even Elrond notices. On the kitchen countertop is a plastic tub full of cookies, their light chocolate aroma enticingly sweet. Elrond takes one and breaks a tiny piece off but even that is the size of the elf’s entire body, and he tries to crumble it again. The elf’s hand shoots out to grab the whole piece and nestled in Elrond’s palm, he begins to chew. Elrond knows of how fae typically consume things like nectar and honey, so it makes sense that something sweet would attract this one’s attention. But apparently, it is an _elf_ and the longer Elrond thinks about it, the more he grows confused. _This warrants research,_ he thinks.

The elf seems content enough to nibble on the cookie as Elrond moves to his study, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath his bare feet. It is a part of elven culture to not wear shoes inside the house, and Elrond finds it keeps the place a lot cleaner when compared to the wild world outside.

There is no door to Elrond’s study as he lives alone and needs no barrier between him and anyone else. Through the carven arch he walks, into a space filled with books, scrolls and sturdy furniture. At every wall is a bookshelf, some with spaces in them for the storage of various items like pens and relics. In the corner furthest from the door, Elrond spies his favourite place to lie amongst fluffy cushions and pluck knowledge from the wall as he sees fit. He can stay there for hours, surrounded by absolute comfort no matter what time it is. In Winter, the nearby heater gives him life, maybe even energy. In Summer, he has fans positioned to cool him down without drying out his eyes. It is perfect, and as he moves to sit at his solid oak desk he is thankful for what he has. The elf in his hand gazes around and Elrond cannot read its expression as well as he would like. But that does not matter, for the elf will live and hopefully enjoy the rest of his immortal life. Elrond looks down at the _Big Book of Fae_ he has open on his desk and puts the elf down beside an empty mug. It doesn’t move, dozing off a little with a few cookie crumbs in its hair.

Flipping pages as fast as he dares, Elrond comes to the section on _The History of Fae._ It speaks of various things that Elrond has always found fascinating. Nudging his glasses to a comfortable height on his nose, he reads.

_Fae originate from the ancient species of Silvan Elves, who lived when the world was young and knew no life other than their forest dwelling in Eastern Arda. From Mirkwood they came, or rather stayed as full-sized elves until their spirits diminished as did their bodies. It is from their lingering in isolation that they grew so small, adapting to their environment decreasing as deforestation occurred. Mirkwood no longer exists save for the reserve park that is there today, but no Fae have been discovered there in the past ten years. Silvan Fae, known as the main branch of these wondrous creatures, are the most common despite the species being incredibly rare. It is said that the Sindar taught them to speak, and even today some Sindar still understand the ancient tongue of Sindarin. Other types of Fae have languages only few understand, such as Vanyarin for the rare and elusive golden-haired Vanyar Fae. Noldorin Fae exist also, but their existence is disputed as there are no traces of their evolution to be found. One can think that Noldorin Fae are the species who refused to diminish all those thousands of years ago, save for a few individuals. It is in their wood-elven roots that Fae are so secretive – perhaps that is why we cannot find them naturally today._

_-On Fae and Elven Heritage-_

_Fae are known as Fae rather than elves simply due to the fact that they are small, and have different physical characteristics to elves. Elves today are the tallest race on Earth, whereas Fae are so tiny they can fit in the palm of one’s hand._

_Fae, while descended from elves are not of the Eldar, as the Silvan breed of Fae were once known as the Moriquendi ( see Chapter 2: Religion). Nowadays the populous Noldor and Sindar along with the minority of Telerin elves are known as the Quendi, being further distinguished from Fae. It is notable that the Sindar are more sympathetic towards Fae than any other race or kin, due to their own stance on who is of the Eldar and who is not. _

Elrond pauses then, blinking to wet his eyes. He glances at the elf now sleeping, curled in a ball and observes just how unique it looks.

 _‘This one is not Silvan… the Silvan do not have blonde hair. But Telerin Fae do not exist… so… is this one a Vanya? So rare, and just living in the Trollshaws?!’_ His curiosity once again stabs him in the head with such force that he feels the need to interrogate the creature before him. But he cannot just wake such a sweet, sleeping face. The elf does look quite fatigued and Elrond doesn’t even know if his Sindarin skills are that good. He doubts them, now that he is in the presence of someone who is fluent in it. Since the elf appears to understand Sindarin, it is unlikely he is a Vanya (as they are only known to speak one or two tongues) but Elrond has been surprised more than once in regards to actual, living Fae. The books were not always right… not even his ridiculously expensive encyclopedia on all things Faery.

Elrond has not studied elves much, at least not the current ones walking around in Rivendell. Only the ancient histories of Arda interest him, but now he finds that a little extra knowledge will be useful in determining just _what_ his elf or faery _is_. The elf seems to know what he is, but Elrond is unsure of whether or not he should believe him. Everything Elrond has ever heard people say has been that Fae are Fae, and nothing else. Yet here he sits, staring at an elf no bigger than an apple.

He decides to contact Erestor.

 

~

 

The afternoon has waned to a cool evening when Erestor feels a vibration in his pocket. _‘Who on earth could be calling me now?!’_ he thinks, gritting his teeth in silence. ‘ _I don’t have time for this. I’m on a mission, damn it.’_

Along the top of a neatly trimmed hedge he creeps. Light and elven are his footsteps, almost gravity-defying as he makes his way along thick leaves. He does not know how he is doing it, but with enough concentration he does. The floor is laser-trapped, inside the compound of Gil-Galad’s mansion. So, Erestor must hedge-walk. Attached to his shoes are round discs that aid in his silence, cushioning each step to sound like the rustling of distant trees. Covering his face and allowing him to breathe is a black mask in the likeness of the devil, he who shall not be spoken of, _Melkor_. If Gil-Galad has any cameras watching, he will see evil itself coming to pull his sinful soul out from his blackened heart. Erestor hopes the rich Noldo will shit himself when he checks his tapes. How he _hates_ him.

Gil-Galad the Grandmaster is the state champion of Eriador, famous for his tactical skills in Enlightenment. In the high-class suburb of Lindon he lives, three days’ journey from Rivendell in the state of Rhudaur. His manor is an enormous statement of wealth with its white Noldorin architecture fashioned after a church, all arches and floral embellishments with a golden domed roof. There is even a spire with a flag on it, bearing the sigil of his house. Nobody but the most traditional families uses sigils these days. Gil-Galad does not even have relatives living with him.

Erestor’s creeping brings him to a tall cathedral-style window with four clear glass panes divided by a white cross. Peering in from the side he sees into the bright golden light of Gil-Galad’s training room. Closest to the window is a lavish dollhouse, through which Erestor can see from the back windows all the way to the open front. A gilded table sits in the middle of the room, thick swirls curling around it while the middle has mesh-like filigree designs. Erestor’s elf-eyes see all, including what is on the table. A glass box with holes in the top, and in the box is an elf. An elf, for Erestor does not consider Fae like the rest of the world. They are elves, small and abused, and they must be freed. The sight of one in a transparent prison sickens him. With a full view of a world he cannot touch, the elf inside appears to be in agony. Writhing around in the small space, the elf is unusually large compared to the one sitting next to the box. He is clearly male due to obvious anatomy and enormous muscles rippling across his entire body, and his hair is so long that it piles up around his feet in thick white coils. His mouth is open in a scream that sounds horribly raspy to the elf nearby, who doesn’t even try to placate him. She merely watches. The glass is bulletproof and does not even crack, no matter how hard the male elf beats upon it.

“Oh, I _am_ glad I had this handy.” says Gil-Galad, his deep voice a little muffled through the window. Erestor narrows his eyes as the Noldo clad in nothing but a blue and gold bath robe comes into view. He plonks himself down on the luxurious couch near the table and leans forth to rest his elbows on his knees. “Look at you, all fired up. And just a few hours ago, you were half dead!”

The elf in the box strains to scream louder and looks like he is having a seizure, doing his very best to explode out of his prison. The sight wrenches Erestor’s heart into pieces, for such desperation does not belong in a creature born to be free.

“Now then, do you want to know what I have planned for you? You’re very strong, even without training. Can you guess?” Gil-Galad’s toothy smile reveals a flash of gold in his mouth, light glinting from it. The elf does not appear to be listening and thrashes harder, smacking his face against the glass. Erestor hears the solid _thunk_ and winces. Gil-Galad’s smile disappears. “Don’t do that.” he growls, and the elf seems to understand his Sindarin as another attempt to split his head open is made. In a sudden rush Gil-Galad flips the top of the box after pressing his finger to the sensor on it and reaches to grab the elf. The second he sticks his hand inside the elf hauls himself up and takes a huge chunk out of Gil-Galad’s finger, shaking his head in an attempt to rip off as much flesh as he can.  
“FUCK!” The Noldo screams and flings the elf five meters across the room, only to slip on a pair of thick leather gloves to go after him again. The elf is by no means quick despite his small size and struggles for balance, pain shooting up his back. He manages to get his hair out of his face before Gil-Galad grabs him and by then it is too late. Erestor watches Gil-Galad squeeze the elf’s arms to his body so hard that it seems the tiny creature might break. But the elf is strong, and continues to struggle.

“Come now, you silly thing. You have nothing to gain by trying to hurt me, and you cannot do much to one as resilient as myself. Calm down.”

The female elf sitting on the table watches as Gil-Galad goes to pet the top of the other elf’s head and smirks as the elf tries to dodge. Gil-Galad is determined however and uses his whole hand to ruffle all that long white hair. The elf wails as his appearance becomes messier than it has ever been, nearly breathless.

“Don’t be upset. I’ll look after you, and you’ll fight well. But you must stop trying to escape if you ever want to live out of that box.”

Gil-Galad’s words make Erestor’s blood boil and just as Erestor goes to open the window and throw a knife at the older elf, something blocks his view. He refocusses his eyes to see a Vanyarin elf with long gold curls of hair peering at him through the back window of the dollhouse. Startled, Erestor leans back only to see the elf do the same. Dressed in a long white nightshirt, the elf grins and lifts up the hem of it. He flashes his bits at Erestor, who frowns in mild shock. The elf only giggles with both hands covering his mouth. He seems _interested_ in Erestor and continues to stare, his wide blue eyes holding curiosity and mischief at once. Erestor has an idea. Looking left and right, Erestor gestures with one finger for the elf to come closer. The elf complies, pressing his face to the window. Erestor takes in a deep breath and mouths the words “ _Open the window_ ” in Sindarin whilst making another ‘come-hither’ motion. The elf beams at him, excited and strangely obedient. While Gil-Galad’s attention is to his newest little prisoner, the golden-haired elf opens the window of the dollhouse and wriggles out to get to the much larger windowsill. There is no latch on the window Erestor crouches at. It is just set into the wall, there to let in sunlight and not much else. The elf looks up at Erestor and moves his hands in a few fluid, elegant motions.

 _“Do you want me?”_ says the elf in sign-language. Erestor raises an eyebrow and signs back. He has learnt signing only because he knows all the little elves understand it, and as their saviour it is his duty to communicate like they do.

“Yes, I want to save you.”

The elf tilts his head to one side. “ _Save me? Oh, do you think I am your princess to be rescued_?” He giggles so cutely it looks a little odd coming from a muscular elf with a chiseled face. “ _Come and get me, then. I’ll be waiting~_ ”

“ _How?”_ Erestor knows who this is, despite the low lighting conditions in the dollhouse. From the room’s light coming from behind, he recognizes this elf as Glorfindel the Brave, Gil-Galad’s best fighter and breeding male. Heavy and sudden is the wave of emotion that smacks into Erestor’s very being. He knows this elf to be the one who is forced to mate with countless little ellyn until they produce strong, beautiful children for Gil-Galad to use in Enlightenment. Glorfindel’s mind seems to be sexually warped in Erestor’s opinion, and it saddens him even more to think of what Gil-Galad has done to him.

Glorfindel sways his bottom from side to side as he presses himself against the glass, peering into Erestor’s eyes. “ _There’s no way out, unless I can slip past the guards outside this room. You should know that, love. There is no escape from the Grandmaster_.”

Erestor blinks back tears of much more than just hopeless rage. His hands shake as he signs _. “I want to help you. Can you make a map of the place for me?”_

Glorfindel actually considers it, a little hope shining in his eyes. Then he makes a sarcastic face _. “And if the map is discovered? What then? Where will you be when he…”_ Instead of signing words, Glorfindel draws a finger across his neck, pretends to smack himself in the head and imitates slitting his wrist. Erestor reads it correctly as _torture_ and nearly faints.

 _“I will do my best to help, okay? I can get rid of the guards. I have friends who can-”_ Erestor’s hands suddenly flail, panicked. He rapidly stabs at the glass without touching it to point behind Glorfindel, as Gil-Galad is coming and he must flee. Erestor backflips off the hedge just out of sight as Gil-Galad peers down the back of the dollhouse and sees Glorfindel with his entire body pressed to the window.

“What the hell are you doing?” Gil-Galad’s majestic brows form a sharp point down in displeasure.

Glorfindel turns and smiles up at his master, arms open. “Ohhh, is someone in a bad mood?” His sweet voice drawls enticingly for Gil-Galad to come and pick him up and the Noldo does, only grabbing Glorfindel by his head. Glorfindel cries out at the pain that rips through his neck and twinges every single one of his spinal vertebrae. He is pushed back into the dollhouse through the front, acquiring some fierce carpet burn on his bare ass. There are no hugs for him, despite his still open arms. Gil-Galad moves away without a word. Longingly, Glorfindel gazes out the window. He spies Erestor ninja-ducking through lasers as he escapes into the night.

_‘Come back, my prince.’_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oropher makes various attempts to come to terms with wtf is going on, and Gil-Galad gets his own plans going.

 

In the morning, Elrond looks at his phone and frowns at Erestor’s aggressive texts.

**_“I was only calling you to ask about an elf I found. This one looks more elven than faery, and I thought I’d ask you.”_** That was all he could say to the capitalized yelling of Erestor’s annoyance from last night. Erestor did not explain a single thing about what was going on in his life, only that he _didn’t have time for this._ So, Elrond has the day to spend in confusion all by himself, with a little elf who doesn’t speak much for company. He decides to get some conversation happening and nudges the slowly wakening elf.

“Hey…” he murmurs, softly as if his voice would hurt those sensitive little ears. “You’re finally awake… are you feeling any better?”

The elf opens his eyes and yawns, running his hands through the hair he has spilling over his shoulders, covering most of his chest. “Mm…”

“May I ask… who you are?” Elrond goes to poke the elf like a child would a blooming flower but the elf rolls away.

“Thranduil. Don’t touch me.”

“Thran…duil?” Elrond searches for meaning but his Sindarin does not go to ancient word-roots and he understands only that Thranduil wants to be left alone. “But why? I-”

“I am a _prince_ of the Sindar and it would do you well to heed my command, thin-brows.” Thranduil tilts his head up and fails to look intimidating in the slightest, but there is a harsh, clipped edge to his voice that Elrond feels will cut him if left unchecked. Elrond grooms his own eyebrows with a sudden burst of self-consciousness and deepens his rapidly wrinkling frown.

“Well alright then _your highness_. Do pardon me for _saving your life_.”

“My life needs no saving from your kind, you Lýgion! Let… Let me go at once!” Thranduil points an accusing finger at Elrond and tries to stand, but feels his legs like soggy noodles ready to collapse in on themselves. He staggers back, behind a thick book and falls on his side where he hopes Elrond can’t see him. Elrond’s disapproving face looms above and casts a cold shadow over Thranduil’s formerly sun-warmed form.

“What did you call me?”

Thranduil does not respond. ‘ _Son of snakes’_ is the first thing that comes to his mind for describing a dark-haired Noldo and it is much easier than trying to come up with anything else at this point. Instead, he is forced to crawl just to get away from Elrond. He does not get far as Elrond scoops him up in one hand, supporting him with the other. He can feel the ridges of Elrond’s fingers against his smooth flesh and cringes.

“UNHAND ME AT ONCE!!”

Elrond nearly drops the screeching prince but does not want to hurt the obviously injured elf in his hands.

“I thought I healed you yesterday… why can’t you walk?”

“ARE YOUR GIANT EARS USELESS, NOLDO?! PUT ME DOWN!!” Thranduil beats on Elrond’s palm with his tiny fists but there is little strength in his motions. A sluggish weariness sinks into his muscles mere seconds later and he gasps, indignant. _‘He has done something to me… and… so did those Men… I… No, I will fight… I.. n..nn…gh..’_ Thranduil closes his eyes. His head spins as Elrond moves his hand, the speed unappreciated by his sensitive sense of balance. “Stop it…” he groans, feigning sickness that apparently becomes real when a wave of nausea suddenly hits. Elrond, unwilling to have Thranduil spew all over him hurriedly puts the elf down in his somewhat empty coffee mug. A few droplets are left inside and Thranduil goes to taste the bitterness before realizing where he is. He cannot stand well enough to jump out of the mug, and fear clenches his chest in an icy grip. _‘Oh, shit.’_

Elrond texts Erestor once again. **_‘He says he’s a prince. Of the Sindar. You have to see this.’_**

**~~**

The sun is well on its way to drying the muddy circle-shaped tracks that Erestor left in Gil-Galad’s yard last night. Unbeknownst to the Grandmaster, the seed of hope has been planted in Glorfindel’s heart and branches spring out with thick leaves reaching for success. Glorfindel believes that Erestor will come again. He wants to wander, to get a current image of the manor’s security layout for his map. Oh, and he will try. After breakfast.

Sitting in Gil-Galad’s palm, Glorfindel allows his Master to feed him caviar on the end of a tiny spoon. Gil-Galad’s favourite hobby is making miniatures, and his skills at silversmithing are advanced enough for him to make Faery-sized cutlery. Glorfindel quite enjoys mealtimes as he is looked after very well by his Master. Gil-Galad controls the diet of all the elves in the house (though he considers them Fae, and they will be sometimes referred to as such) and cares for Glorfindel more than anyone else. His newest acquisition has tape over his mouth and sits bound in his little glass box, watching the various delicacies Gil-Galad’s other pets indulge in. The female elf assigned to keep an eye on him kneels on top of a marshmallow, picking out sugared oats from a bowl the size of her head. Gil-Galad believes in realistic portions so as not to overfeed his Fae and does not let anyone steal things from his plate. He only has a bit of toast with strawberry jam on it along with a latte swept with sweet white froth. Today he doesn’t feel much like a lavish breakfast as he plans to go out for lunch with some of his business partners – and _they_ will be paying for a good meal. Making the most of other people’s generosity is how he maintains his wealth, after all. He thinks himself incredibly smart for that.

“So, what do you think of our newest warrior?” Gil-Galad asks, looking to Glorfindel for an answer. Glorfindel finishes the last of his food and turns his head aside, gazing at the trapped elf. His hair spills over the edges of Gil-Galad’s palm, and he sighs.

“He’s very pretty… I want to touch him.”

“Of course you do.” Gil-Galad’s laughter is short and quiet before he takes a crunching bite out of his toast. He remembers how his finger almost got removes last night and glares unintentionally at the white-haired elf in the box. “You must be careful with him, though. He’s very aggressive… and won’t say a word to me.”

Beside the box, the female elf with an oat in her hands glances to the left. “I don’t think he likes you.” she says, leaning on the glass. Inside the box, the elf cannot move and only glares at her with his dark green eyes. Gil-Galad observes their interaction, as does Glorfindel.

“Maybe you should let me talk to him… Everyone loves me, even Mr Tough Guy.” Glorfindel nudges his Master’s fingers with his cheek and rolls over. “Come on. Let me have a look.”

 

Minutes later, Glorfindel stands in front of the white-haired elf who is out of the box and shackled with cable ties to a heavy brass ornament. Nude and humiliated, the elf says nothing and this pleases Gil-Galad who really does not enjoy having his pets scream incoherently at him for hours. He watches from his position on the couch as Glorfindel makes his move.

“Hello, love.” says Glorfindel, stepping close to the elf. “What’s your name?”

The elf remains silent, but makes a few motions with one hand. Letters in sign language, spelling out his name.

“Oropher?” Glorfindel receives a nod in reply, and turns to Gil-Galad.

“Ask his kin next. He doesn’t look Silvan at all.”

When Oropher hears Gil-Galad speak he refuses to comply with anything Glorfindel askes him, catching on to their little game within seconds. Glorfindel sighs.

“He doesn’t want to say anything much. Wow, he _really_ does not like you, hm?” As Glorfindel wanders back to Gil-Galad, Oropher struggles to be free. The cable ties cut into his flesh and he groans, scrunching up his face.

“Oh, stop that. Into the box with you.” Gil-Galad puts on his gloves and goes to clip the ties, holding Oropher with a painfully tight grip. Oropher cannot escape Gil-Galad’s strength, especially as his own is diminished due to the drug coursing through his veins. If only he had been quicker and less intent on beating his captors to a pulp. Then he might have still been free. Now, his near unlimited physical capacity is not something to scoff at but still incredibly weak to him. What use are his arms if he cannot lift ten times his own body weight and punch through glass? What about his voice, formerly deafening and now painful to use? What of his powerful core and blade skills, now going to waste? He struggles once more and is shoved into his box with a definite ache at the top of his head. He does not move once Gil-Galad puts him in there. The female elf Lileth looks at him, her face impassive.

“You should be glad your skull’s not caved in by now. It will do you well to listen to our Master.”

Oropher stares ahead. He does not look at her.

_‘One of these days I will have my chance for vengeance. Until then… I will take care.’_ In his mind he decides to play along with whatever Gil-Galad has in store for him. He knows non-compliance will get him nowhere, even if it has taken him many hours of resistance to figure it out. He _needs_ to get back to his temporary home in the Trollshaws. He must find his son.

 

~

 

Oropher is surprisingly amenable when Gil-Galad takes him out of the house, in a tiny black iron birdcage large enough for him to sit in with his legs crossed. He must stoop if he is to stand, for the cage does not really accommodate his height. Glorfindel is in a golden one that has a few pillows in it along with miniature sunglasses and a drink. He waves to Oropher just as he is brought out of sight. Gil-Galad attaches each cage to his earlobes and wears them as earrings, with fine craftsmanship and precious, captive beings on display. In a large stretch limousine he goes to town, half an hour’s journey to get to the city center. Along a tree-lined boulevard is his destination – Celon Café, where business-folk meet and watch for celebrities. Here is where Gil-Galad intimidates his opponents and sends spies to take notes on other Fae. Enlightenment is especially popular amongst the rich and immoral elves around here – thus the owners of various Fae come to socialize in an environment with just the right atmosphere. Most Fae are kept in cages to prevent them taking a bite of what freedom they are offered, and only allowed out if their owners trust them enough. Few Fae hold relations so positive with their owners. Still, nobody minds the cages out in public.

Nobody but the anti-Enlightenment extremist groups that cannot bear to see what they think is their own species paraded around like slaves. Captured Fae often do not wear clothes, but as few have seen them wearing such things in the wild, it is believed that such exposure is normal. Were they to be clothed, they would appear as imprisoned elves with intelligent minds and an ethical scandal would arise. So they are naked, like the animals that walk the streets. The only animals, it would seem, that are allowed in regular people-spaces.

Gil-Galad’s movements are smooth and graceful as he sits at a semicircular table. With a large window to his right and the entire café to his left, he waves over a waitress first and orders something before turning to the people opposite him. The three men clad in stuffy suits and still wearing dark glasses to protect from the sun outside hurriedly tell the waitress what they want, and she leaves moments later. Gil-Galad smiles at them and nods gently.

“It is good to see you are all on time.”

“Y-yes… It is a pleasure to have you here with us, Sir.” The first man closest to the edge of the table bows his head and straightens up before his glasses fall off. “We will do everything to assist with your newest acquisition.”

Speaking in crude Westron is not Gil-Galad’s favourite way to converse but he supposes in order to move things along, he must accommodate the language of his companions. There is plenty of room for elven elitism here… but Gil-Galad wants these people to understand him, _then_ know their place. They already respect him. He does not need to force it.

“Yes. Endir, do take a look at Oropher here and tell me what you can about him. He does not speak much, unless it is to screech or growl.” He laughs. “Such a feral little thing.”

Oropher is not pleased at all by the derogatory words in a language he doesn’t understand, and hears his own name. He snarls at Gil-Galad out of instinct before remembering to act calm and resigns to sitting down in his cage. The world seems to lurch as he is brought over the table to Endir, who removes his glasses and holds the cage with care. From the top, as instructed, he uses two fingers and waits for the cage to stabilize. Oropher makes no attempt to rock it as he feels his head spin. With his eyes closed, he hears murmurs and the clinking of cups against saucers in the café. The noise is at a tolerable level, but so alien that he does not like it at all. He scowls naturally without even realizing it. When he opens his eyes, he is met with a dark brown gaze and thick black eyebrows. Too close. Threateningly close. He reaches out of his cage and instantly hits the back of it as Endir jerks the cage away.

“Be careful.” Gil-Galad chastises the man with a sharp hiss, and Glorfindel chuckles. Endir apologizes, and the two men beside him take a peep at what is causing so much fuss. Oropher goes dead silent and turns to look at them. The one beside Endir looks similar to the other, with shaggy light brown hair and thoughtful eyes. A little stubble dances across his face, making him look like the older brother to the man at his left.

“Hmm…” Endir turns the cage around, his hand shaking a little. “This one looks like a Sinda, due to his hair and height… definitely not a Noldo, but might have some Telerin ancestry…”

“Dunk him in water and see if he can swim.” says the unshaven man with a smile, leaning back as drinks are brought over by a waitress. Gil-Galad shakes his head, unwilling to drown his newest pet.

“Boromir, I didn’t call you here for your advice. So I have a Sinda on my hands, and he’s one of the most aggressive I’ve seen. What weapon do you think would be suited for him?”

Boromir, the miniature forgemaster of Gondor tilts his head in thought. He does no weaponsmithing himself, rather enslaving a few rare Noldorin Fae to assist in the laborious, small-scale task. Nobody these days cares much for ancient armour or weapons to be custom-made save for roleplayers and history enthusiasts, so Boromir has an easy but fancy-sounding job. Everyone who partakes in Enlightenment look to him for fine and expensive weapons for their Fae. They don’t know how he actually makes the things they buy. It’s a secret, he says. A terrible, terrible secret.

“I think he would do well with a greatsword.” Boromir sips his glass of purified water, looking over Oropher’s figure. “Maybe two. How strong is he?”

“My suppliers tamed his physical reactions quite a bit, so that is still unknown. In a week or so he should return to full strength, though. But _two_ greatswords? That’s just silly.” Gil-Galad smirks at the thought of anyone wielding more than one of an enormous weapon. Glorfindel listens to what is being said and plans to tell Oropher later, just to earn his favour. He can’t help but feel a little sorry for this confused old elf, so newly taken from his home and already being evaluated for battle. Still, he says nothing and relaxes with the sun shining in from outside, warming his skin. Beside Boromir, Faramir stares at Glorfindel and tries to keep his thoughts from straying into sinful territory. The things he feels for Fae are taboo, but that does not stop them.

Boromir shrugs at Gil-Galad’s words. “Well, I still think he would do well dual-wielding something powerful. I can have a sword made for him when you know how much his lifting strength is. Do some tests for me, eh?”

Gil-Galad nods. “When the time comes, I will contact you again.” He then turns to Faramir. “Since I have a rare piece of work here…” He points to Oropher, then retracts his hand as food is brought to the table. “I am wondering if I should breed him. He’s well-endowed but as I said, aggressive, so I’m not quite sure…”

“Hmmhmm. You should pair him with your Lileth and make endless warrior babies. The silver hair will be a nice touch, and you’ll have a lot of very desirable little Fae to play with.” Faramir knows Gil-Galad has kept Lileth waiting for a new elf, as the amount of blonde elflings in the manor is far too great for any training to be effective. Gil-Galad wants a new project, and he thinks his finest breeding female is ready. Faramir knows more about Faery biology than anyone else, with his degree in mythical sciences speaking more than his wise, lecherous gaze can. He looks up and down Oropher’s body with enough intensity to make the elf shudder, and Endir who holds the cage hears a soft growl.

“Stop staring at him… he’s going to do something, I can feel it.”

Oropher whips around to glower at Endir and bares his teeth at the clearly frightened man. To see someone scared of him is a delightful ego boost and he cracks a smile, toothy and a little malicious. Gil-Galad takes him back a few moments later.

As they all eat, Gil-Galad rests his cheek in one hand and watches Oropher. Oropher sits and stares at all the food, thick juicy pieces of chicken with honey-soy marinade and glistening skin making his mouth water. Gil-Galad takes a single strip of meat from the remaining chicken on his fork and pokes it through the bars of Oropher’s cage. Oropher sticks his face to the bars in his desperation to get some energy into his body and inhales the strip faster than Gil-Galad can think to pull it away.

“Mm, you like meat?” Glorfindel purrs at him with a sultry gaze, parting his legs for only Oropher to see. Oropher does not know what to say and nods, sticking his hand out of the cage for more chicken. Gil-Galad does not give him any more, even though he knows the elf has been starved for over eighteen hours. Still, Oropher _wants._ Glorfindel is teasing him with the little pile of breadcrumbs he has and Gil-Galad doesn’t even care. Oropher sits back in his cage, shoulders slumped.

_‘Is he going to let me die…?’_

Gil-Galad wonders about his new elf’s diet. Endir knows about history and the various elven kins, while Boromir is all about crafting weapons and knows the finer rules of Enlightenment. Faramir is focussed on anything related to reproduction, but Gil-Galad has not spoken to his Faery dietician in months.

“Will Denethor be available any time soon?” Gil-Galad asks the brothers who are busy eating, but make time to answer his question.

“He’s not been well for quite some time, as you know…” Boromir speaks slowly, trying to get his racing heart from the sudden consumption of chilli to calm down. “Then again, I think that’s from my brother bothering him so much.”

“Oi!” Faramir pokes Boromir in the side with his fork, eyes narrowed. “I only want the best for my Neli, and who better to consult than Father?”

Gil-Galad raises an eyebrow. “Neli? You have a new Faery?”

Faramir goes to explain but is shushed by his brother, who does not want to turn their conversation awkward. Faramir owns a petite Silvan by the name of Nelien, and he is incredibly proud of her for accepting his unconditional love. Yes, he loves his broken little Faery who is four months pregnant with a half-human child, courtesy of Faramir’s curious desires. Boromir secretly thinks it is sick, and tries to prevent his brother from talking about it much. Gil-Galad is his best customer. He does not want to creep out the most famous elf in Eriador.

Gil-Galad wonders what is going on but does not really care much what other people do with their Fae. Hardly anyone can complete with his beautiful, strong Glorfindel and those who do are _decimated_ in battle. Now though, he has a new elf to test the strength of others with. He will not enlist Glorfindel in _Dagor_ , the much darker version of Enlightenment where Fae fight to the death. Instead of risking his finest male, he will use Oropher to see whether or not he can win the bets where lives are staked and immortal beings die on a regular basis. In Dagor, he is the masked watcher and no-one knows who he is. Now he may compete.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao pls forgive creeper Faramir, he doesn't mean any harm  
> (it's totally not commentary on the way people express their desires so freeely on the internet these days, not at all... >->)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More than one person cares about these little elves more than they probably should... but for what reasons, nobody truly knows.

 

Erestor sits beside Elrond on a dark red couch with more holes than covered spaces. He knows his friend is too poor to afford upholstery and it annoys him that Elrond prefers to pay bills than to get nice furniture. Still, he buys good wine and Erestor cannot complain about that.

Two glasses of fine red wine all the way from Gwinion in the far East are on the table, in a traditional elven style being short and almost bowl-like. Elrond had poured them full five minutes ago and Erestor is letting his own sit, merely enjoying the strong aroma. Beside Elrond’s glass is Thranduil kneeling on a soft piece of bread on a plate that he picks at now and then. It’s wholegrain, nutritious enough but nothing like what Thranduil prefers to eat. He is hungry though and eating is one way to distract himself from the two Noldor’s scrutinous stares. He thanks the Valar when Erestor and Elrond begin talking to each other.

“Well, he does look like a prince. Definitely not what people consider an ordinary Faery… he is most definitely a Sindar elf.”

“That’s what I thought…” says Elrond, glancing for a second to Thranduil who is suddenly mesmerised at the sight of his own reflection in the deep red of Elrond’s wine glass. Thranduil turns his head left and right, admiring his beautiful face with his eyelids half shut. “He seems to be a vain little thing. What should I do with him?”

Erestor’s face hardens to a very serious look. “What do you mean? He is a living being, Elrond. He has his own will, and deserves freedom just like us-”

“Ahhh yes I know, I know, do not soapbox on me now mellon-nín.” Elrond raises his hands to placate his friend and Erestor falls silent. “I know I must look after him until he is well enough to walk, but I just mean… what I should do in the meantime?”

“You make sure he is happy and ask him what he wants.” says Erestor, firmly nodding his agreement to his own words.

“Well what _would_ an elf like him want? I am no servant to a prince, Erestor. I have no clue how to even look after a child…” Elrond admits his own shortcomings as honestly as anyone can without being self-deprecating, and looks to Thranduil. Thranduil’s hair is floating at the top of Elrond’s wine glass as he gulps down as much wine as he possibly can with his face stuck inside, body leaning over the edge. The glass is dangerously close to tipping over with Thranduil’s weight on one side, but luckily it is a solid vessel and its thick base makes for less of a disaster. Thranduil strains to drink more but the glass is only a quarter empty and he falls right in, face first. Before he panics about drowning he feels like he is in heaven, surrounded by deliciously sweet wine. He drains the glass halfway before Elrond pulls him out, terrified of letting an elf die before his paranoid friend.

As expected, Erestor chastises him. “Elrond! You must keep watch on him!” Before Elrond can do or say anything, Erestor snatches Thranduil away and holds him with care.

“Oh, you poor thing…” he mutters, looking for something to clean the wet elf in his hands. He wipes Thranduil with the bread that was just sitting on the table, and checks to see if anything is seriously wrong. Thranduil looks rather distended but pleased nonetheless and tries to grab the bread that is soaking up the stickiness from his body. Erestor glares at Elrond. “You could have given him alcohol poisoning.”

“M-Me?!” Elrond’s eyebrows shoot up into his receding hairline and he grabs his glass to find a few blonde hairs floating in it. “It’s not my fault!”

“Yes it is.” says Erestor as he caresses Thranduil with the dry side of the bread, eyes returning to gaze at him. “You should be more careful.”

“Why? It’s not like he’s a dog that will eat or drink anything in sight… like you said, elves are intelligent beings. No matter how big or small they are.” Elrond tries to defend himself while at once appealing to Erestor’s beliefs. It works well enough and Erestor’s face softens.

“Just look at him, though. It looks like his people have taken good care of him.” Watching closely, Erestor smiles as Thranduil nuzzles into the flesh of his palm. His hands are warm and Thranduil rubs himself up against them as he finds a comfortable position to curl up in. His bones do not stick out of his body so it is clear he has not been starved, and his hair is long and luscious despite being quite damp. “You should give him a bath when he sobers up.”

“Alright.” Elrond nods and shuffles closer to Erestor so he can get a better look at Thranduil. Clearly drunk from ingesting far more alcohol than any miniscule elven body should take, he moans quietly into Erestor’s hand. Once Erestor curls his fingers for Thranduil to use as a blanket, the little prince is still with a droopy smile on his face. Elrond thinks he is quite cute, but says nothing out of respect. Erestor has never liked people to use diminutives around these small beings and Elrond will not make that mistake again.

“I’m glad you called me over…” Erestor speaks much quieter now that Thranduil is asleep. He makes an effort not to whisper, as the sound is often harsh and hissing to elven ears. His smooth, low voice actually relaxes Elrond without meaning to and the elder elf smiles at his friend.

“I knew you were the best person to call. Thank you… I am sure I will treat him as best I can.”

“Yes… and text me if you have any more questions. I must be going – I have an assignment in Lindon next week.” Handing over Thranduil to Elrond, Erestor stands up and drains his wine glass. “Ahh… mm, I’ll see you sometime.” He waves, and Elrond nods in farewell.

That night, Elrond puts Thranduil to sleep on a little cushion in his own bedroom and covers him with a tissue. Thranduil is not such a terrible companion when relaxed like this. Elrond no longer feels truly alone.

 

~

 

A week passes, and the news is alive with talk of Enlightenment as the year’s Summer Qualifiers draw near. Every December there are trials where Fae of all sorts come to be tested, to see if they are good enough for Enlightenment. The strongest are selected to entertain the masses with their fighting skills and hopefully win their owners a good bit of prize money. Gil-Galad has won ten years in a row but still people come to fight, eager to defeat Glorfindel and claim the title of Champion for themselves. It is usually the same Fae who reach the finals – those trained by Arda’s finest Battlers. Rarely will a foreign competitor get anywhere past the first few rounds, but occasionally there have been folk who have tried. Gil-Galad has slaughtered every one of his opponents without drawing blood. Enlightenment is about the ascension to a state of pure physical power, after all. Not about massacre or cruelty. In fact, the spillage of bodily fluids is prohibited on the battlefield and results in the perpetrator’s disqualification from that particular match. Nobody wants to see Fae (theirs or another person’s) die, ever. Some even believe that it is a terrible sin.

Oropher is at full strength and stands in a huge square box with Glorfindel on the opposite side. Like a boxing ring, the walls are colour-coded with one corner in blue and the other in red. Glorfindel takes blue for the colour of his eyes (and Noldorin ancestry) while Oropher takes red to represent his brutality. Gil-Galad says there is meaning behind it all. Oropher does not believe a single word.

“Now, I am going to explain the rules.” says Gil-Galad, peering down into the box instead of looking through its high, semi-transparent coloured walls. “Glorfindel knows them well, so if you play foul he will call it out.”

Oropher makes a swift gesture from his nose to Gil-Galad with his fingers somewhat clawed, then rolls his eyes. Glorfindel chuckles and speaks in Sindarin.

“He doesn’t care, Master.”

Suddenly feeling betrayed, Oropher shouts something random and points an accusing finger at Glorfindel. It conveys a sense of ‘ _You shut your fucking mouth!’_

“Ahh, but he is ready to fight! Have at it, you two! The rules shall come later. But no blood, Oropher. Don’t kill my Glory.” Gil-Galad rings a little bell and Oropher does not know what to do, already pissed enough to fight without being told. Glorfindel runs towards him with a wooden sword longer than his own arm and Oropher instantly roars at him to force him to back down. Nobody has done this to Glorfindel and it actually makes him falter, but only for a moment and that is enough for Oropher to take his crudely fashioned wooden greatsword into one hand. The sword is made of MDF board and nothing as weak as balsa wood, so it actually has a bit of weight and strength to it. Oropher smacks into Glorfindel’s side with the blunt edge with enough force to shake the elf’s organs.

“Guh! H-hold, wait a minute.” Glorfindel feels that Oropher is actually trying to cut him but Oropher does not listen and screams at the top of his lungs, one hand clutching the air in a vindictive gesture of rage while the other goes to stab Glorfindel in the stomach. Glorfindel’s eyes change to a darker shade of blue as he knocks the blade aside, watching the greatsword slide past where his body had been mere seconds ago. He tries to get a blow in and goes for Oropher’s head, but Oropher bashes the sword away with his thick forearm and charges straight towards Glorfindel.

His fighting style is that of a brawling berserker fueled by the hatred for his enemies alone, and while he is neither quick or calculated his barrage of heavy strikes wear down Glorfindel’s resistance fairly quickly. Glorfindel dodges as best he can but when one of Oropher’s hits lands on his shoulder, he crumples to the ground, gasping for breath. He rolls away and Oropher keeps coming after him, his heavy panting like the chant of impending doom. Gil-Galad clasps his hands together with glee at the sight of Oropher’s ruthlessness and knows the loophole regarding the force of strikes in Enlightenment can be exploited with Oropher just fine. But he does not want Oropher for Enlightenment just yet. Not until the Sinda has learned the rules. No, in Dagor where there _are_ no rules seems to be better for Oropher. Gil-Galad takes notes in his leather-bound journal with a gold pen against the black paper. Then he notices Glorfindel wheezing for breath and clutching his chest. Oropher goes to deliver a killing blow, one with the force to shatter Glorfindel’s ribcage but ends up smacking a thick piece of wood instead. On the other side of the wood, Glorfindel is scooped up into Gil-Galad’s hand and Oropher is declared the winner of the match. Unsatisfied at the lack of blood, Oropher growls up at Gil-Galad. He receives no attention at all, as the Noldo is peering into his hand, cooing softly at the elf within. Glorfindel has several unsightly bruises all over his body and trembles as Gil-Galad touches him, doing his best not to whine about how much pain he is in. Oropher brandishes his sword with pride and sticks it into the styrofoam floor of the training box, leaning on the hilt.

“It looks like I have a new prize fighter…” Gil-Galad murmurs to himself, only to hear Glorfindel wail like an upset child from within his hands. Glorfindel covers his face and refuses to look at his master out of shame. Oropher cannot see what is going on, but he feels a rush through his body that is so familiar it reminds him of the life he once lived.

Gil-Galad sends Glorfindel to be taken care of by his two healer Fae and goes to pick up Oropher.

“Put your sword down, love. I’ve got a title for you.”

Oropher shakes his head and points his sword at Gil-Galad as if to say “ _You’re next.”_ Gil-Galad laughs a little nervously, for now that he has seen Oropher’s ferocity he is not sure he wants the elf armed and close to him.

“Unless you want to starve in there, you’ll put the sword down and come quietly.” Oropher’s cage is placed inside the box and he grunts, stepping in. He leaves his sword as instructed and thinks to bide his time until he has a plan formed. Glorfindel has told him of an elf who will help them to escape, and when that time comes _then_ he will have his revenge. He will bring the force of his entire kingdom down upon Gil-Galad’s head, like a swarm of angry bees coming to take his soul.

Gil-Galad picks up the cage once the automatically locking door is shut and takes Oropher over to a table. There, various items are laid out and there is a glass box thrice Oropher’s height. It doesn’t have a top, and Oropher is taken out of his cage to be placed inside.

“I am going to test your lifting strength. Put your hands up like this.” Gil-Galad draws a figure in his journal of an elf lifting an apple above its head and shows it to Oropher.

_‘How stupid.’_ Oropher thinks, ‘ _Does he not know I can lift the earth up into the sky if I wish?’_ He is curious what sort of reward he will receive if he does as Gil-Galad asks today and nods with a scowl. Gil-Galad places a fifty-cent piece that weighs about as much as a Faery’s arm into the box. Oropher holds it with one hand and tries to take a bite out of it. The metallic taste is sharp and tangy, enough for Oropher to want to eat it. He manages to get teeth marks into it before Gil-Galad takes it away.

“My, your teeth are strong. Then again, I don’t need to test you for that…” Gil-Galad still feels his finger twitch at the sight of Oropher’s razor-sharp teeth, remembering the agony of having it bitten. He discards the coin and picks up an apple, a string tied around the stem. He lowers it into the box whilst observing Oropher from the side, using a miniature pulley system he’d made himself. Oropher’s hands are flat as he looks up at the bottom of the apple, not showing any signs of stress as the full weight of the fruit is pressed down upon him. Surprised, Gil-Galad takes a leap of faith and gives Oropher a solid gold bar, enough to feel heavy to a human-sized hand. Oropher braces himself with legs apart and hands in the air, smirking with pride at his own strength. It dawns on Gil-Galad that he should be glad for Oropher’s compliance, as he isn’t sure that he can hold the elf in his hand to restrain him any more.

“Can you do that with one hand?” Gil-Galad asks, turning the bar over to reveal a nail melted into the end of it. Oropher grabs the nail to use as a grip of sorts and holds the bar up with one hand, his thick arm muscles quivering with the effort of keeping it balanced. Gil-Galad is struck by the need to see Oropher fail, disbelieving all this power at once. So he presses down with his hand on the gold bar, then stands to put more of his own weight onto it. Oropher crumbles when his elbow nearly goes inside out as Gil-Galad shifts his balance around and grunts as the gold bar comes down on him. It does not crush him as he pressed himself to the back of the glass box, but Gil-Galad’s hand above him is so tempting, he wants to stab it…

“Right. Let’s see how hard you can hit.” Gil-Galad removes the bar and dangles a piece of string for Oropher to grab. Oropher takes it and is lifted out of the box, to be placed on the table. Now he is given the heaviest greatsword from Gil-Galad’s armoury, one that Glorfindel had once practiced with. It feels incredibly light compared to the gold bar and Oropher swings it around, looking for something to cut. The first thing he sees is the apple from before and he slices through it easily. Next is a piece of wood, and he hacks into it with such force that the wood splinters as if hit by an axe. From that and several successive hits, Gil-Galad gauges how hard Oropher can hit without the use of specific pressure-sensitive technology and tells him to stop. Oropher is not very fired up as he is only hacking at a piece of wood, and slows his attacks. He looks up at the taller elf expectantly and is told to drop his sword. Upon hesitating to leave his first _real_ blade alone, he sees Gil-Galad smile.

“You want to be rewarded, do you not?”

Oropher nods. Oh, _yes_ he wants a reward. He has survived on shitty food and captivity for so long that _anything_ good fills his mind with hope.

“You must not attack me. Alright?” Gil-Galad waits for Oropher to nod again, then places his hand on the table. Slowly Oropher walks until he steps onto the Noldo’s palm, and sits as he is brought up into the air. His hair streams behind him with the wind of Gil-Galad’s movement and a thrill runs through him. Just a little, he smiles. Gil-Galad’s keen eyes catch it and he smiles too. Very gently he runs his finger down the back of Oropher’s head, brushing past his ear. Oropher feels something he has not felt in fifteen thousand years, and shivers. A slight redness tints his cheeks and he looks up at Gil-Galad in question.

“Tell me what you want.” says Gil-Galad in a low murmur.

Oropher cannot speak and doubts that Gil-Galad understands elven sign language, but makes an attempt. He looks outside the nearby window and points. Gil-Galad sighs.

“You want to go outside?”

Oropher nods, then makes a flapping gesture like flying.

“Of course. You want to fly away.”

Once more, Oropher nods. He slumps in disappointment as Gil-Galad informs him that he cannot let him go. The single-fingered stroking of his hair is back again and Gil-Galad asks him if he would like anything else. Oropher shakes his head. He cannot express how dearly he wishes to be with his son through gestures alone. Lying down on his stomach, he hides his face from Gil-Galad’s view.

The Grandmaster cannot appease his pet tonight and while Gil-Galad is a little disappointed, he knows it is not good to dwell on the mentality of other beings. So he places Oropher in the dollhouse for the night, where a somewhat patched-up Glorfindel lies in bed, recovering. Oropher remains in the lower level of the house and does not move. He looks at Gil-Galad with sadness in his eyes and watches him turn away.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there's smut in here lol CMON IT'S GLORFINDEL bein a cheeky lil derp

Another week passes and Erestor is still in Lindon, stalking Gil-Galad when an unusual car pulls up outside the manor. Unusual because he has not seen it before on his frequent visits to the place – but the man in the passenger seat is none other than Boromir, one of Gil-Galad’s close contacts. Erestor peeps with his binoculars from atop someone else’s roof into Gil-Galad’s property as Boromir makes his way through the gilded gates. He carries a small box with him labeled very obviously as “Weapons”. Ah yes, smuggling sharp objects of fine slave-craft for use in Enlightenment. Erestor is shaking so terribly that the roof tiles come lose from his movement. A dog barks at him from down below and gets a tile to the head, which is Erestor’s cue to get the hell out of there before he is noticed. He knows what package Gil-Galad is receiving… but only in the qualifying round of Enlightenment will he get a look at the contents.

Boromir’s special home delivery for Gil-Galad is designed to build favour and hopefully a bit of friendship, but when Gil-Galad is paying eighty thousand dollars for two carbon steel miniature greatswords coated in pure osmium, it is business and nothing more. One of Oropher’s butlers takes the box from Boromir, hands over a cheque for the payment without tax and shuts the door. The money is enough to keep Boromir happy for a little while.

When Oropher receives his swords, he compares them with Glorfindel’s single sword and spear. Glorfindel cannot even lift _one_ of Oropher’s swords with both hands and pouts, but Oropher only laughs and swings his blades around. The osmium shines with a bluish silver tint and accents the high-fantasy look of Oropher when nude and ready to fight. There is also armour for him in accordance with the laws of Enlightenment, also coated in osmium to match his sword. It wraps around his body, following the curve of his muscles with a distinctly elven design – of Noldorin craft, he does not think it suits him but he wears it nonetheless.

“ _I don’t need armour.”_ he signs at Glorfindel, who tells him he has to play by the rules or be punished. Oropher has had enough of humiliation and cages for one lifetime and does not want any punishment if he can avoid it. _“Look at this shit. What are all these same-same designs? Nothing’s flowing, nothing looks organic. Damn, does my ass look big in this?”_

_“You look fine, love. Honestly. Come here.”_ Glorfindel opens his arms and Oropher steps forth with his plate armour clinking loudly. Glorfindel gives him a nice, big hug that he can barely feel but appreciates nonetheless.

“It looks good on you.” whispers Glorfindel into Oropher’s ear, before he places a sweet kiss at the tip and slides away. Oropher is left to blush and fiddle with his swords until Gil-Galad comes back.

“There’s my brutal little warrior! Ooh, you look absolutely ferocious in that! I’m looking forward to entering you this year.” Gil-Galad tries to pick up Oropher who is all sharp edges and discomfort and now ready to slice his fingers off. “Swords down, now. I must check your range of movement.

“ _I can move just fine.”_ Oropher indicates with his hands then squats in his armour, feeling a sharp twinge between his buttocks. “Ai!” he cries, doing a half backflip and landing flat with his legs spread. _‘What is this?!’_ A little piece of woven scalemail has caught on the fabric he wears beneath the armour and stabs him in the ass as he writhes around. He tries to get it out but cannot reach, and Gil-Galad frowns.

“Hmm, you can’t get your hands behind your back? This is a problem…”

His thoughts are interrupted by a shout from Glorfindel.

“Wait, you’re not entering me?! Why not? I thought you were going to put me in the tournament this year…”

“No, no. I want to test Oropher. You will have your turn next year, my brave beauty. Don’t you worry.” Gil-Galad moves to pet Glorfindel, hoping to reassure him but to his shock the blonde elf moves away.

“No!!” Glorfindel puts his foot down and still grips his sword by his side, hands shaking. “I will not have you put me aside for breeding again! I want to fight!”

“Glorfindel.” Gil-Galad’s face is suddenly stern, his voice cold. “I will sideline you for _five years_ if you keep screeching at me like that. Shut up, will you?”

Oropher glances at Glorfindel to see him look absolutely broken with tears in his eyes. He sits up and goes to sign something but Glorfindel does not pay him any attention and turns away, walking off. He leaves his sword on the floor and climbs into the box labeled “Weapons”, crawling towards a corner to sulk. Oropher looks at Gil-Galad with a slightly pained expression from the chainmail stuck in his ass.

‘ _It looks like I’ll have to modify your armour myself. Oh, I am going to claim a refund on Boromir for this negligence…’_ Gil-Galad thinks quietly whilst beckoning for Oropher to come close. As he attends to the elf, he focuses on using his fingernails to pick at little pieces of armour while making mental notes on what to grind down. In the box, Glorfindel curls into a ball and dreads being forced to mate once more. He knows where his sons and daughters go. His sons to train for a fight to the death, and his daughters to be bred until they die. He knows this, and he weeps for the family he will never have.

He cannot fight Gil-Galad. The mysterious window-ninja elf is his only hope.

 

~

 

Today is far too hot for Elrond to go walking and he stays at home in the living room, laying on a wet towel in nothing but his underwear. On his head is another towel, and there are a few ice cubes on his chest. He cannot afford air conditioning and he prefers not to be dried out by fans, so in the absence of a cold shower he must deal with the heat like this. Thranduil sits on his chest, sucking on one of the ice cubes and pushing it around from time to time. It feels odd for him to have a tiny person atop his chest but Elrond is too drowsy to care. After enough icy beer and a lazy morning, he just doesn’t care what happens.

“Oi…” Thranduil mumbles, spreading his nude self over an ice cube. “Fetch me something to eat.”

“What, like a popsicle or something?” Elrond turns his head aside, sweat trickling down the side of his face. “I can’t be bothered…”

“You must!” Thranduil shoves his ice cube forth and it slides over Elrond’s nipple, sending shivers through the elder elf’s body. Elrond is only half-elven and thus has a bit of hair on his chest which Thranduil tugs at to really get his attention. Bolting upright, Elrond yelps and swats at Thranduil, who ducks out of the way. The ice cubes go flying and for a moment Elrond is blinded by the towel hanging in front of his face.

“D…damn you! Why did you do that?!”  
“I am hungry, and I _demand_ food.” Thranduil climbs into Elrond’s lap and jumps up and down on his thigh. “Now!”

“Urgh…” Elrond reaches for his beer and takes a gulp of it. He gestures to Thranduil. “Will you not have any of this?”

Thranduil shakes his head. “Proper food, you cretin. Come on.” He climbs into the waistband of Elrond’s underwear as a great journey is made to the kitchen, where the cool tiles sizzle at the contact of hot feet against them. It shocks him into flinging open the fridge, where he places Thranduil on the highest shelf.

“Find something you like, and quick.” Elrond cannot hold the door open for too long but enjoys the cool air while Thranduil looks for food. Inside, Thranduil takes his sweet time searching, poking at wrapped leftovers until he finds a half-eaten jam tart at the back of the fridge. It’s so comfortable to sit on the glass shelf and just eat to his heart’s content, so that is exactly just what he does without a care for Elrond’s electricity bill. Elrond rolls his eyes and wants to hurry the elf along but he is loathe to disturb such a beautiful creature at peace. So he watches Thranduil stuff his face with nice, cool jam and buttery soft crust until the fridge beeps in warning. It startles Thranduil and he jumps up, running towards Elrond’s hand. They are back on the couch to relax within minutes of their little kitchen adventure. In a few weeks they have grown a little close, even though Thranduil does not appear to respect Elrond much. He can move perfectly well now after enough rest and healing, but does not really want to run away. Now and then, Elrond wonders why. He has not figured out how to phrase the question yet. Thranduil’s mood is ever so finicky and to upset him would not be wise. So Elrond thinks, and thus remains quiet.

 

~

 

That night in the dollhouse, Oropher wonders what is wrong with Glorfindel. He grunts at him to get his attention as Glorfindel lies in bed on his side. Glorfindel grumbles in reply.

“What do _you_ want?”

Oropher sits on the bed and puts a hand on Glorfindel’s shoulder. It is to get him to turn around so he can see what Oropher has to say, but Glorfindel takes it as a sign of comfort and sighs. When he turns, Oropher signs at him.

“ _What’s up with you?”_

“It’s not like you would understand.” Glorfindel sits up, folding his arms. “You get to fight and I have to sit here and fuck with ellyn who don’t even love me.”

_“What, multiple elf-maidens? What is wrong with that?”_

“Why, are you DENSE?!” Now upset enough to lash out, Glorfindel makes a forceful gesture with both hands up and down, clawing at the air in front of his chest. “I don’t want to make children only for them to be taken away and die! Do you not understand how terribly it hurts?!”

“ _I was taken from my son_.” signs Oropher, pausing to look down at nothing. _“I knew him for fourteen thousand years.”_

Glorfindel takes a moment to go _holy shit_ and think of the longest amount of time he’d ever spent with one his children. Only a year, he thinks, then he never saw them again. He remembers his firstborn son Asfaloth, named after the first memory he has of his previous life. His countless daughters went without names, but he does not doubt that their mother remembers her secret names for them. Whichever mother that was. One of the five Gil-Galad keeps under lock and key for his own greed, or what he says is ‘for the good of the Enlightened community.’ It is bullshit, and Glorfindel knows it. He turns to Oropher and whispers into his ear.

“I don’t even like ellyn. I prefer big, strong warriors like you…” As he speaks he licks the side of Oropher’s cheek, and the Sinda recoils in shock.

“ _You… are joking, right?”_

Glorfindel does not see the gestures but cares little for proper words now. Oropher knows his stance. All he can do is react. Oropher is of a similar stance but is unsure how to react, having not done this sort of thing for millenia. He shuffles back on the bed to his side (the left) and suddenly feels far too exposed under Glorfindel’s hungry gaze. Only the moonlight from outside illuminates their bodies and a silvery sheen is cast upon Oropher’s muscular build when he moves further. Glorfindel is wonderfully toned as well, but Oropher is much more thickly built with less of a tapered waist. He grunts as Glorfindel clambers onto him and tries to resist the urge that wells up inside him to reciprocate, then there is a sudden mouth at his own, hot and wet and definitely not asking for permission.

“Mnh!” He claws at Glorfindel’s back at first disgusted by such forwardness ( _he is a King, special and untouchable and this is wrong, but it feels so **good…** ) _but soon finds himself curious about more of what this elf can do. He has coupled once in his life only to produce his child Thranduil, and not once thought about doing it for pleasure. It seems that is all Glorfindel has on his mind and he encourages Oropher to _come on and kiss him._ Oh and Oropher does, not about to be guided through anything by this elf who he considers beneath him. He shoves Glorfindel down onto the bed and feels his hair cover his bent over back as he pins the blonde in place.

“Mmmm…” Glorfindel tosses his head to one side and licks his lips, eager for more. “Go on. Show me what you can--” His words die in his mouth as Oropher sticks his tongue there in a fiercely passionate kiss. Whimpering and sighing at such force, Glorfindel runs his hands down Oropher’s body to grope at his muscular thighs. Oropher is having none of it and buries his nose in Glorfindel’s neck, eager to sniff out his intent before allowing them to progress further. He breathes in a heady, masculine scent with the traditional sweetness of elven flesh and sinks his teeth into Glorfindel’s skin. Instinctual fear shoots through Glorfindel’s body along with an undeniable arousal that instantly hardens his impressive length. He cries out and his voice is lost in Oropher’s hair, so silky and smooth that he feels like he is drowning in it. Oropher chews and draws a little blood, lapping at it in his effort to mark Glorfindel. Once he is done there he straightens up and pushes his crotch forth with a low groan. His deep, rumbling tone is just what Glorfindel likes to hear and if he is honest, it sounds much better than Gil-Galad’s slightly whiny and demanding expressions. Here before him is one meant to lead, capable of commanding armies with his voice alone. Glorfindel parts his legs with a cheeky grin and grabs Oropher’s throat.

“Be kind to me, love.” He squeezes as he speaks, and Oropher smiles as it amuses him to think that Glorfindel could ever cause him pain. With a grunt, Oropher licks his lips and tilts his head back, enjoying the feel of such warm fingers upon his neck. He feels a little light-headed when Glorfindel presses a certain way and his thick, wet arousal drips where it lies on Glorfindel’s stomach.

_“I will give you what you want.”_ he mouths, and Glorfindel reads it perfectly.

 

When the morning comes, Oropher and Glorfindel are under the covers without care for the lights or presence of others in the room. Drunk on pleasure and sated curiosity, Oropher laps at Glorfindel from behind to clean him before anyone can notice what went on last night. He is practically drinking his own thick sweetness as it drips from Glorfindel’s reddened rear, but Glorfindel cries out that he loves it, his voice muffled in the pillow caught between his teeth.

_“Someone is coming.”_ Oropher traces the letters on Glorfindel’s thigh, and hears the response “Oh yes, it’s me~!” Glorfindel is smacked moments later for an incorrect reply and Oropher shuffles to lie flat before his indecency is discovered.

“Don’t stop…” Glorfindel moans, trying to push Oropher back under the covers. Just as the Sinda is about to give in, a much louder voice interrrupts his hazy thoughts.

“What are you two doing, still asleep? You must train hard today, especially _you_ , Oropher.” It is Gil-Galad, reaching into the dollhouse to peel back the bedcovers. Glorfindel lies on his stomach to hide his erection while Oropher sits up, drowsy.

“Mngh..” Oropher rubs his face and peers up at Gil-Galad. He shakes his head, unwilling to do anything other than sleep. Last night’s adventures have exhausted him and a bit of relaxation is just what he needs. Glorfindel feels much the same and whines to Gil-Galad, “Let us sleep…”

“No.” The Grandmaster is firm on the training of his Fae and grabs Oropher by the shoulders. Squirming like hell, Oropher slips out of the tight grip and falls right on top of Glorfindel, who groans as if he is dying. “Come back here, damn you.” Gil-Galad makes another grab for Oropher and disturbs some of the delicately placed furniture in the dollhouse. Now he holds Oropher securely in one hand and takes him away, intending to give him some food then set him to practice swordplay.

_‘I want to go back to bed…’_ thinks Oropher to himself, already having had a nice meal of fresh ass for the morning along with a good deal of exercise. He tries to flip his middle finger at Gil-Galad but the Noldo is not paying attention as he goes to put Oropher in the training box. There is another elf in there that looks a lot like Glorfindel, twirling his wooden sword around. Oropher raises his eyebrows with interest, but finds his attention soon turned to a cube of potato the size of his head with a square of ham on top.

“Eat your carbs, Oropher. You will need them for today.”

Oropher has no clue what Gil-Galad is on about but eats his breakfast anyway, still tired and feeling full enough to just lie down and take a nap. Two wooden greatswords are ready for him to practice fighting with, and they go completely ignored as Oropher sits down. He gestures for the blonde elf to come near and confused, they obey until Oropher pulls them down to the ground. He places his head on the elf’s stomach and uses them as a pillow, closing his eyes.

_‘Ohh… this is nice. So warm and comfortable… just like back home.’_ He is used to sleeping with company, namely his son beside him safe and sound. Without Thranduil, he must make do with whatever he has. He does not question how strange it is that after last night’s willing encounter with Glorfindel, he is eager to take comfort in the other little elves around… but he sees nothing immediately wrong with what he feels like doing, and does it without care. The elf (who is called Bregor and has the healthy glowing skin of a Silvan mixed with Noldorin smoothness) looks to Gil-Galad for guidance. Gil-Galad is livid, his entire face red and hands clenched into fists. How _dare_ Oropher eat his food and just _lie_ there?

“Where is your fighting spirit? Come on, get up!” Gil-Galad takes a screwdriver out of the nearby drawer and pokes Oropher in the ass with it, only to hear the elf sigh. He tries again, and Oropher arches his back a little as if he _enjoys_ the touch. One sharp stab goes right to Oropher’s thigh and still, the Sinda does not give a shit.

“Must I punish you for this?” Gil-Galad warns with a nasty edge to his voice and watches Oropher roll over, baring his stomach. The motion says _pet me_ , but the look on Oropher’s face screams _just leave me alone._ Oropher still does not appreciate being out of bed and growls when Gil-Galad picks him up. He can’t be bothered fighting and groans a little as he is squeezed tight, then yelps loudly. Now stuffed back into his tiny transparent box, Oropher can barely breathe and can _not_ get comfortable. For hours and hours he sits there until he is absolutely miserable, and even then he is not released. Gil-Galad yells at his chemist over the phone, upset at Oropher not reacting to the drugs he was given in yesterday’s dinner.

“What do you mean you mixed up breeding preparation with the training tonic! He was supposed to be rested then aggressive, not promiscuous and tired!! This just isn’t normal, and it’s bloody inconvenient-”

_“Sir, I’m sorry! It was a simple error, and you’ve been rushing me so much that I can barely think straight…”_

“Don’t give me that shit!! You think I have the time to coddle this feral forest fucker into submission? He’ll bite my hands off before I get him to properly use a sword! Now send me something for concentration and obedience, or I’ll burn your house down.” Gil-Galad slams the phone down with a loud _clunk_. Even if he breaks it, he can buy a new one. Maybe one that isn’t solid gold would make hearing people’s voices easier, but that is the furthest thing from Gil-Galad’s mind at present. He goes to look for Glorfindel and see if he is in the mood to train and finds the elf masturbating, his head thrown back and legs spread on his miniature couch.

“You stop that right now!” he snaps, flicking Glorfindel’s crotch. The stinging pain that shoots through Glorfindel’s body makes him retract his balls and cringe into himself, shuddering violently. “You’re meant to save yourself for Lileth!”

“Her again?! Has she not had enough?” Squirming around on the couch, Glorfindel keeps his hands between his legs. “Ai… I will not be able to do anything with this now that your fingernail has cut it…”

“What? Let me see.” Gil-Galad leans in close to take a look and Glorfindel turns away.

“No… it hurts. Go away.”

“How dare you?! I was thinking to let you fight next week but now that you’re acting like this…” When Gil-Galad moves away he expects Glorfindel to call out for redemption but hears nothing other than short, pained breaths. Glorfindel does not look at him for the rest of the day.

_‘Ah,’_ he thinks. _‘I have fucked up.’_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fyi I didn't throw that in just for the sake of it, there are itty bitty reasons why shit happens in here that might not be immediately clear :X this is as dubcon as it gets, mind you. drugs, lol


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IT BEGINS

 

For dinner that night in Gil-Galad’s manor, his Fae are offered their usual meal to supplement their individual diets. Gil-Galad doesn’t know what Oropher likes to eat, nor does he have any clue about how the elf’s body works, so he does not feed Oropher tonight. After breakfast, he doesn’t think Oropher really deserves anything other than cold, cramped isolation. Oropher remains awake and tired in his glass box while Lileth looks at him, waving her biscuit squares back and forth.

“Do you want some?” she mouths, hoping for a response. Oropher’s eyes are unfocussed as he stares into space. He is too weary to think, and terribly hungry. Glorfindel also watches him, but with a different intent. There is pity in his heart for the elderly Sinda, whose stress-lined face seems to be falling off by how sadly it droops. Since Oropher has nothing to eat, Glorfindel cannot swap meals with him in secret as he did last night. There are to be no adventures tomorrow morning and Glorfindel thinks with a bitter lust that Oropher probably regrets his actions. It does not matter. Glorfindel’s desire has been sated, and if he must use chemical trickery to get what he wants, he will do it again. It is Gil-Galad’s fault, anyway. Trying to get Glorfindel in the mood for breeding? Preposterous. Glorfindel already wants to do nothing but fuck all day and any more medication will ruin him. He is already sore on a daily basis from vigorous self-pleasure, and if Gil-Galad pushes him any further… well, Glorfindel does not know what he might do. He likes the thought of keeping himself in one piece, and thinks to himself how entertaining it is to see Oropher lose his self-control. Oropher _does_ seem like quite a stern and reclusive elf… Ah, but now he is not doing anything at all. He almost looks dead. Glorfindel finishes off the peanut he was eating and taps on the glass of Oropher’s box.

There is no response.

Gil-Galad is not there to oversee his pets as he knows tensions will be high and appetites most likely ruined by his presence. Eating on his own while watching TV, he almost feels a little guilty for how badly things have turned out today. It is not his fault, though! Gil-Galad always knows to place blame upon others before himself. He is never wrong, after all. His mind does not let him believe anything otherwise.

_‘Why must Oropher be so damned troublesome…? Everyone is making far too many mistakes, first Boromir, then with the drugs, now all this… The Qualifiers are in less than a week! If things do not go perfectly, I will be screwed…’_

While Gil-Galad worries over everything he can, far away in Rivendell, Elrond and Thranduil are at peace.

Thranduil sits nude as usual with his legs spread and eyes closed, eating a massive stick of butter. Elrond hasn’t gone shopping in quite a while and lets Thranduil eat just about anything, confident that the tiny elf prince will not deplete his pantry as quickly as a bigger person would. Thranduil with his fast metabolism and love for sweets chews the soft, creamy and honestly quite fattening yellow treat that has been sprinkled with sugar to sate his sweet cravings. Elrond feels like doing little other than watching him, so he lies on the couch and does exactly that. Thranduil looks most content when he has something in his mouth, whether it is food, a finger, or other flesh of some sort. He demands nothing and his insults lessen, much to Elrond’s delight. Elrond prefers to look after people and show kindness rather than absolute servitude, obeying their every whim. He knows when he is being taken advantage of, and it is safe to say that Thranduil has him completely whipped. Elrond however has learned how to handle his situation in less than a month and knows the next time Erestor comes to visit, he will be quite proud of how things are going. That will not be for some time though as Erestor has work to do for the Faery-Eldar Justice Association, in which his position as Leader is of utmost importance. Every time Enlightenment rears its head in the news, Erestor is somewhere with his squad, planning deep and dark things. More protests. More missions. More things to try tearing apart the biggest sport in Arda.

Thranduil makes soft, pleased sounds as he enjoys his food and Elrond dares to reach out behind him. With care, Elrond’s finger runs down Thranduil’s back and pets him gently. Thranduil arches into the touch, sighing a little with a smile brightening his pale face. He does not think to screech at Elrond for touching him, as the feeling is welcome and not at all intrusive. Elrond knows how to be tender, warmth growing inside him as he watches Thranduil’s obvious satisfaction. He has always wanted to look after someone. He has lived alone all his adult life.

 

The next day he keeps Thranduil close when they go out shopping together. It’s another sweltering hot day and the sun seems to burn the very air when Elrond looks around. His vision swims around in waves, and Thranduil’s hot little body sticks against him like a ball of lava in the side of his neck. Thranduil does not sweat but Elrond does, just enough to make him uncomfortable. It doesn’t bother Thranduil too much though, as Elrond has quite an exotic, masculine scent to him that makes even the finest of perfumes seem worthless. Here in Elrond’s neck with a bit of hair keeping him from getting sunburn, Thranduil is quite happy to sit and rest. For all that he eats, he becomes tired easily and Elrond wonders how the little elf ever managed to survive in the wild. It occurs then to Elrond that perhaps he should ask Thranduil what he wants to do with his life, before any major decisions are made. Many Fae-oriented shops line the street Elrond walks along, as Enlightenment is so popular in this big city that everyone seems to want to capitalize on it.

“Thranduil, do you mind if I ask you something?”

“Mm…?” Thranduil leans to purr into Elrond’s ear, his voice so soft and sweet it is like a melody on the warm breeze.

“Do you want to stay with me for a little longer? You’ve healed quite well, and I have been wondering if you wish to return home, to the forest where I found you…” Elrond sticks his hands in the pockets of his loose black trousers, keeping one hand on his wallet. It is only a habit, one he has developed since a dwarf tried to steal from him many years ago. He must protect what little money he has… and find some way to get more. Thranduil nips him on the earlobe and whispers harshly.

“No, I won’t go back there. I don’t belong in that place, anyway. Mirkwood is my true home… but I have nowhere to go, not without my Adar.” The sharp edge to his voice is a metallic cut on his tongue, something cold and bitter that he does not want to spit out. With hatred he remembers the men who took his father from him, and the single elf with dark, sunken eyes full of glistening greed. So strong is the emotion he tries to suppress that Elrond feels and reacts to it immediately.

“If it upsets you so, then do not speak of it. I will look after you if you shall ask it of me.”

“You are wise…” Thranduil whispers and slinks down into Elrond’s collar where he can rest amongst soft fabric and hair. He breathes in the hot scent there and closes his eyes with a sigh. ‘ _The day will not be so bad after all.’_

~

Elrond comes home with his usual groceries and a box of cheap assorted chocolates, one for Thranduil to eat each day. He does not know how the elf will react to so much processed sugar but it is good enough for regular-sized meals that will not cost a fortune. Also in his bag is a fluffy towel, the kind thick bathrobes and blankets are made of. Before he packs his shopping away he takes the towel and cuts it into a rectangle that is the same width but double the height of his palm. The piece goes into the bottom of a tissue box that has had the sides and top removed to create a shallow dish with tissues on it. He then places the towel on the tissues and stuffs a folded tissue with cotton wool. Here is where he will give Thranduil a proper place to sleep – somewhere to call his own. When he shows Thranduil, the elf is appreciative and smiles faintly, commenting on how much nicer it feels to just sleep on Elrond’s face. But Elrond moves in his sleep and does not want to crush Thranduil. So, sleeping arrangements are made and that night, Thranduil settles into his tiny bed that is of equal comfort to silk and leaves. Sleeping in the wild is what he knows, but in Elrond’s house it is tolerable, to say the least.

~

Three days pass, and Gil-Galad can finally relax after sanding down Boromir’s hastily made (and super expensive) armour for Oropher. Oropher lifts his head, his arms and legs sluggish as they are dragged around as Gil-Galad orders. This lethargy is not normal but while guilt and an odd depression linger around Oropher’s head, he cannot really do much else for the Grandmaster. Gil-Galad is careful on how he punishes Oropher as the date for Enlightenment draws near – on Monday the Qualifiers start and there is no way Glorfindel will be entered so close to his planned breeding. He must be kept healthy, happy and aroused so that his chances of producing a valuable child are at 100%. The same goes for Lileth, who does little more than lie around and let her numerous sons pamper her. Glorfindel is not allowed to see his children. He wonders why.

~

On Monday morning, Gil-Galad gets into the back of his sleek black limousine to be taken all the way to Celondim, the riverside promenade a few hours from Lindon where the Enlightenment Qualifiers are held. This year, the event will take place on a boat with cameras broadcasting everything to huge, floating screens. When Gil-Galad arrives at 7pm to the sight of a long boardwalk full of people, he knows he has a reputation to uphold. Cameras flash at him and many voices raise in greeting. Some ask about Glorfindel, but Gil-Galad’s bodyguards usher them away.

In his cage, Oropher stares around at the bright lights and dark sky. People hold electric lanterns (while some of the elves use actual candles) and there is an excited, impatient air around. The entire waterfront is lined with security cruisers and a short distance from the nearest pier, a massive ship awaits. It is there that Gil-Galad goes, flashing his smile and ID to an officer who lets him onto a jetski. He is taken to the ship and hauled up by sophisticated machinery, given a red carpet to walk along once he is ready. After combing his fingers through his long, dark hair he takes a circlet from one of his bodyguards and places it upon his head. The fine golden vines offer an air of ancient regality to this modern elf reborn without true knowledge of his life in the past. Gil-Galad doesn’t care. He feels kingly enough with guards who double as servants and his little warrior in a cage. He walks along the carpet towards the center of the ship, which is a massive circular room bursting with rich blue and gold. The event is run by those who are fond of (and somewhat fetishize) the glamorous life of the Noldor as it is told in history books. Gil-Galad scoffs at it all, feeling superior with his own heritage clear as day on his face. His _manor looks better than this place,_ he thinks. But it is fancy enough here, with the expensive curtains and carefully tiled floor. In the room there are many folk with champagne glasses and extravagant clothes, hair and makeup done to perfection. Most are dressed in some 18th century style, with the immortal elves who’d lived during that time managing to pull off the look better than most. There are more men than elves here however and Gil-Galad sneers at them all. The elves are here for entertainment and the memories they cannot grasp. The humans… just want a good fight. _How crude._

Gil-Galad takes a fine snack of meat and melon from a nearby man with such long hair it is clear he is some kind of rich Gondorian fellow. The man’s eyes sparkle at the sight of the Grandmaster himself, and he bows his head while expertly balancing his tray. Gil-Galad doesn’t spare him more than a glance and eats what he was offered, turning with serene grace to walk away. In his cage Oropher is rocked by the motion of the Noldo’s head and draws his knees close to his chest, afraid. He will never admit in his life that he has felt (and still feels) the icy clutches of fear, but what drugs Gil-Galad has given him do not still his racing heart enough for him to be calm. There are far too many people here, more than he has ever wanted to see. As a small elf he knows that it will hurt to be stepped on, to have his bones broken and body ruined, but at the same time he is confident that he can fight any and every thing that tries to hurt him. He does not, however know how he will fare in Enlightenment with its complex rules he can hardly remember. If he fails, Gil-Galad will do something to him. This much he knows.

Still nude and a little warm from the stuffy air in the room, Oropher curls into a ball as best he can. His hair drips from the side of the cage and tickles Gil-Galad’s neck from how long and silky it is. Gil-Galad brushes the hair away without a single care. In silence Oropher thinks of his son, and the memory of Thranduil’s beautiful smile gives him strength. He will live to see another day, if only to return to his little spring flower.

_‘Yes, that is what I will do. I will play this game and wait. Always, I will wait…’_

An announcement is made at 7.30 on the dot. Participants are to travel to the center of the room and take the huge glass elevator to the top of the ship, where the arena is situated. Gil-Galad is used to these proceedings and goes into the elevator, all by himself. Nobody is brave enough to get in with him. He owns the space for less than a minute, and when he walks out the crowd on the roof treats him to enthusiastic applause. He smirks and raises his right hand in a wave, passing it by Oropher’s cage that dangles from his ear. Eyes follow the movement and when Oropher is noticed, excited murmurs rush through the crowd. Gil-Galad walks past every heart-eyed fan _(they’re all his fans, everyone loves him, he likes to think of such things before the competition starts_ ) and goes into the room beside the arena. Oropher takes a look at the glass-walled bowl that is to be the fighting space and cringes. The flat bottom is completely see-through, and the menacing black hole of a high-speed camera is visible beneath it. Several others float around the space, recording and broadcasting live. A few television presenters are also there, and they follow Gil-Galad until he gets into the preparation room. Sticking out like a sore thumb on the roof of the ship, the Enlightenment prep room is a comfortable lounge with healer Fae and all sorts of elves. Aside from the event’s organizers and volunteers, the other Battlers are also present and keeping watch on their Fae. Many are seated on a large, circular couch designed to offer maximum comfort for those who wish to stare at the containment box on the table. There in the glass box are all the Fae, kept there so they will not be tampered with until they are called to fight. Some quiver with fright at the sight of others, and others make polite conversation in discreet Sindarin. Someone has a microphone positioned close to the box to hear what the Fae are saying, and as usual there are people recording with their phones. Mostly the humans do that, as they strain to catch every precious memory before it slips from their empty minds. Gil-Galad dumps Oropher into the box and goes to sit on an armchair, flanked by his bodyguards. He takes out Oropher’s armour and weapons from the box he carries in his deep pocket and begins to pray. It is silent and reverential, so nobody sees him do anything other than look inside the box. Not a speck of dust mars his perfect blue suit and he is all business with a bit of concentration too.

In the box, Oropher rises to his feet and looks around. So many eyes are on _him_ specifically that he wants to curl into a ball and die. He does not know any of these people, not the Battlers and certainly not the Fae. Some of them look familiar… but more than 75% of the Silvan do not speak to him. With their eyes lowered, they pretend he does not exist.

_‘They look broken.’_

“Who’s that?” says an elleth with long golden hair, peering with a magnifying glass into the box. She manages to look elegant and reserved as she does so, leaning forth without wrinkling her pure white dress.

“Look at his hair… oh, it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen!” A man clasps his hands together, his monocle nearly falling off by how much his grin pushes his cheeks into his eyes. The Fae in the box take their turns glancing at Oropher, and he glares at every single one of them. He is the tallest out of everyone by far, and the most muscular (despite strong competition being present). One brave elf wanders up to him, hair so black its red highlights look like living flame as they swish with his jaunty step.

“So you’re the Grandmaster’s new pet, eh?” The elf speaks in _Quenya_ and Oropher does not know the tongue. He hates the sound of it though and looks away, tilting his head up.

“Answer me you big brute, or I’ll beat the fëa outta ya.” Now the elf uses Sindarin and Oropher blinks.

_‘Is that… a Noldo? So small, here?I… have not seen one save for a rare occasion in the wild… well, not since the Battle of the Last Alliance. Oh, I do not like this one at all. That spirit is not one I have the patience for.’_

He shooes the elf away with his hand and closes his eyes, waiting for this Enlightenment shit to start so everything can get a swift move on. The elf trembles to keep from punching him in the face and walks away, steam rising from his head.

“Feenie, love. Don’t be so upset.” A low voice coos from the sofa and the little Noldo turns around to see his owner making baby faces at him. Fëanor, reborn so small to serve Battlers as punishment for his ancient crimes sticks his tongue out and sits on the floor. His owner Fingolfin (only two hundred years old) does not know who Fëanor truly is and tilts his head to the side, mildly concerned. Fëanor has been stubborn before. If he suddenly decides to not fight when he is called, Gil-Galad will have hell to pay for his Fae’s psychological manipulation tactics. They do not call him the Grandmaster for nothing.

Violence is prohibited in the Holding Box and everyone in there is forced to keep their hands to themselves. Oropher is grateful as he notices with one eye open that many are looking at his hair, wanting to touch it. He has grown it for over fifteen thousand years and he will be damned if any little plebian gets their hands on it. It spreads around his space for almost thrice his height, and he gathers it in his hands in an attempt to clothe himself. He is used to being nude but among his own folk, in his own home. Not here, before all these lecherous eyes. He looks to Gil-Galad and sees the elf not even paying attention to him.

All he can do is wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> believe it or not I spent ages making up the rules and systems of Enlightenment XD AND I STILL HAVEN'T MANAGED TO GIVE IT A LEGIT SOUNDING NAME oh well, high class bullshit forever it shall stay~


	6. Chapter 6

The time comes when the heap of elves in the box are alerted to the game starting. Their names have been put into a generator and whatever pair is matched first goes into the arena. Oropher watches two elves be taken out of the box by expert glove-wearing handlers, then they are carried out of sight. All eyes turn to the screen opposite the sofa that is attached up on the wall beside the entrance door. Just beyond the door of the soundproof prep room, the adoring masses crowd around the arena as close as they can get without being electrocuted by the laser barriers. The barriers are behind all the cameras that record a 360 degree view of the arena, and everything rises into the air just a meter above everyone’s heads. Two long corridors poke out from the prep room and slide along a rail to the arena. An elf jumps in, then the arena rotates so the other can take their place on the opposite side. The corridors retract just a little and healers can be seen stationed there, waiting for any sign of injury. Elsewhere, officials watch the camera feeds to check for any signs of foul play. Before entering the corridors, the elves have been checked for any signs of drug use or general stimulants. Most are under the influence of sugar and little else.

A disembodied voice welcomes the audience to what has been the greatest sporting event in Arda for centuries.

**_“Aaaaaand welcome to the 695 th Enlightenment Qualifiers! It’s a cool night at sea and the air is brimming with excitement to see challengers new and old come to the field! Here we shall witness the glorious ascension of fair beings into powerful, intelligent souls and observe the Enlightening! ARE YOU READY?!”_ **

Propriety cast aside, the crowd goes wild and everything from hats to handkerchiefs are waved in the air. Someone even waves their child around, and the kid doesn’t even care. The excitement is contagious, and everyone is hyped. The announcer continues!

 ** _“Our first contestants are familiar faces – Bregolas the Strong and Gelirwen the Seducer! We have raw power up against cunning skill – who shall triumph in the first match of the season? Set your bets and keep your eyes peeled for the countdown starts now!”_** From ten to one a countdown begins and in that time, everyone who cares to bet puts in their numbers to the automatically updating realtime app on their phones. Money is to be made when Enlightenment occurs and even though it’s just the qualifiers, people will put their cash at stake for the delicious 50/50 odds.

Dressed in heavy silver plate mail with his hair tied up, Bregolas flexes before the cameras behind him and turns to face his foe. On the other side of the arena his keen eyes get a good view of Gelirwen, who is scantily dressed like a female video game character in little more than a flexible bit of filigreed bronze that covers her breasts. She swishes her hips from side to side, her chainmail skirt clinking as it moves around. A deep “ooh” and “ah” is heard from many of the men watching. Gelirwen fights her tears and cracks a smile, intending to make her Master proud. She does not want to be shaken when she goes back into her cage again.

When the countdown reaches zero, a bell rings and the fight begins! Bregolas leaps forth with his double-ended spear in one hand and goes straight for Gelirwen’s exposed belly. She dodges to avoid being sliced open and smacks him behind the knees with her rapier, before quickly making several stabs at the weak points in his armour. He thrashes around to confuse her and suddenly gets a poke to the face, where his metal visor has once again saved his eyes from certain doom.

“ ** _Oh! That was a close one!_** ” The announcer cries with glee in his voice, cameras zooming to catch Bregolas aiming his spear (which is not sharp enough to break skin but sturdy to the point of causing internal organs to rupture with force) for Gelirwen’s head. She rolls to the side and spins around, dancing away to one corner of the arena. With one hand she beckons, watching Bregolas lumber towards her as fast as he can in his massive clunky suit of armour. When he is close she dodges again and goes for the back of his knees, poking him so hard that he falls with a thick _clang_. He feels his bones shiver at the heaviness of his own drop and attempts to get up, only for a slice to ghost across the back of his neck. When he reaches to grab Gelirwen’s weapon she suddenly elbows him in the head and the crowd gasps. With a metallic sound ringing in his ears, Bregolas feels a terrible migraine coming on. It is the same one he had a few days ago from being exposed to his Master’s terrible attempts at grinding steel, and he clutches his head in both hands.

“Yield,” he whispers. “I yield.”

Curled into a ball, Bregolas is stepped on by a victorious Gelirwen who shoves her rapier into the air, grinning.

**_“Aaahhh and that’s it for the first round – Gelirwen goes to stage 2 of the Qualifiers later this eve and Bregolas is OUT! Love truly triumphs over war in this amazing selection for true Enlightenment! Now let’s see our next contenders!”_ **

As the elves are taken from the arena by a handler on a raised platform, two more come from past the healers and jump into the glass bowl.

 ** _“Here we have Daedelos the Wicked, a true fiend! He is up against the fine and flighty Nestadion Quick-foot! You know the rules, everybody! Ten seconds to lay down your hope for these brave fighters!”_** The fights continue and sometimes, a few names of newcomer Battlers and their Fae are announced. Older Battlers with winning streaks to their names and even semifinalists from a few years ago are betting favourites, and the announcer lets everyone know who’s who. The regulars, the newbies, the unknowns and foreigners. A curious amount of people from distant lands are present, and they sit in the prep room with their eyes fixed to the screen. Some are checking out the competition, and barely understand a word of Westron. Arda is rather unforgiving towards those who do not speak its language, but fighting styles are easy enough to comprehend as are the various looks and gestures of the country’s inhabitants. Present in the lounge and looking quite nervous are two people from across the seas. A man from the United States sits with hands folded in his lap and a professional look about him, despite eyes darting around at all the other Battlers. He knows the Fae from having watched Enlightenment on cable TV, and has trained his own precious beings captured fresh from Arda’s own soil. Beside him is his travel partner, a Japanese woman he’d met upon first arriving at the airport in Gondor. She knew where she was going, and he saw nothing wrong with seeking a little companionship. Now that they are in Arda however she sees him as an enemy and will tell her Faery to show no mercy against his in battle. She will not even talk to him now, and he feels more like a strange man in a strange land than a prestigious competitor in the most complicated sport on Earth. He looks at his Fae in the box, jealous of his little Celwen’s ability to communicate with all the others. She laughs and smiles in her conversation and he hopes she isn’t making fun of her clueless owner. He knows the rules and she can fight. That is as far as they get, and it does not come as a surprise to anyone when they are defeated by a seasoned veteran in shining armour. The woman (Noriko, a perfectionist with her Fae and life in general) tilts her head towards him with respect for a good effort. She will not see him again. When her Fae Melith is called, she wishes for luck and strength, hoping for the best.

Many wins and losses later, the box of elves will be down to a hundred and twenty one-time winners. As part of the qualifiers, each winner must succeed twice more to narrow down the contestants to thirty. As each battle lasts less than ten minutes, the mood is kept high enough for the audience to not lose interest. It is 8:45pm when nearly half the box has been defeated and Oropher goes up against an elf. He glares at the handler reaching for him with thick protective gloves and is scooped up with more care than Gil-Galad has ever used. The handler has Gil-Galad’s box and takes Oropher over to the entrance to one of the corridors. There is a table beneath the corridors where Oropher is checked for drugs or injuries, then the assistant Fae help him into his armour. They cannot lift his weapons out of the box so they tell him to arm himself and once he does, he is ushered into the corridor. Dark and lit with small LED lights, the corridor has a light at the end that shines from the elevated arena. As Oropher nears it he glances at one of the healers. They smile and nod at him, hoping to reassure but he only sees it as false kindness. They work here for the sake of keeping elves used in battle from dying, be it from injury or exhaustion. Oropher feels nothing but contempt for them. He cannot sign anything for his hands are full of two gleaming greatswords and just as he goes to sneer, the corridor dips and he slides into the arena. He lands on his face, limbs splayed and swords nearly wrenched from his hands by the impact of his knuckles against the floor. He rises slowly and shakes scalemail from being caught in the wrong places and squints at the bright artificial lights. Then he sees his opponent on the other side of the bowl. There is nothing but raw, bristling anger to be seen in their posture, and the gnashing of teeth can be heard. Oropher takes it as a challenge and squares his shoulders, lifting his swords up off the ground. The announcer keens with apparent glee.

 ** _“Look! One of our final contestants for the first selections is a newcomer to the field! Trained by The Grandmaster Gil-Galad himself, this might just be the next champion we see! Heeeere’s the Sinda warrior, OROPHER THE CRUEL!!! The elf unlucky enough to face him is the seven-time qualifier Ecthelion of the Fountain! A fountain of despair faces_** **his _enemies as he looks ready to tear someone apart! The countdown starts now!!”_** At the sight of the Grandmaster’s qualifying entry, the crowd screams and clamours to get a better look. The points of Oropher’s greatswords rest on the ground and Ecthelion holds a silver-tipped spear with deadly precision, his armour sparkling like diamonds. It is only steel encrusted in cubic zirconia, but looks legit all the same.

 ** _“10! 9! 8! 7! 6! 5! 4! 3! 2…. 1… LET THERE BE LIGHT!”_** The bell rings after the announcer’s words and the first to charge is Ecthelion. With sheer aggression powering his assault he runs straight for Oropher, spear aimed to kill. Oropher heaves his massive swords into the air and roars at the top of his lungs, teeth bared like a rabid animal. He is not as fast as Ecthelion but runs well in his sanded, form-fitting armour with blind confidence. Ecthelion sees a humongous monster of an elf coming straight for him and is struck by a moment of fear, casting it aside in favour of a swift defense. He makes to duck down and manages to sweep at Oropher’s feet, but his spear knocks into the side of Oropher’s leg and the impact is thrown right back into Ecthelion’s arms. He cries out and rolls out of the way just as Oropher’s swords (coated in transparent silicone to prevent the spillage of blood) smack into the thick glass floor.

 ** _“Ohh that was BRUTAL! Run for your life, Ecthelion!”_** The announcer echoes what most of the crowd is screaming and Ecthelion gets to his feet, a little wary now that his failed attack has calmed his rampant aggression. Oropher has gone silent and now only grunts as he swings his blade, not a single scratch to his leg which remains safe in undented armour. He goes to chop off Ecthelion’s head (or at least break his neck) and that is easy enough to dodge, but the second great strike that comes in from the side and up catches right underneath Ecthelion’s ribs. Well, where the ridge in his breastplate is, anyway. Ecthelion goes flying and vaults over his spear with a shock to his system from such force. He doesn’t even have a moment to breathe as Oropher comes again to beat him to the ground and Ecthelion sprints away. Oropher gives chase until he realizes too late that he is being baited and Ecthelion manages a backflip, driving his spear into Oropher’s chest. Oropher only stumbles a little and lunges to bash into Ecthelion with his shoulder. The sudden charge sends Ecthelion to the ground, and once he is down Oropher leaps on top of him, pinning him in place. The bloodlust in Oropher’s eyes wash any thought of further combat right out of Ecthelion’s ears.

“Y-Yield, let me live another day, you fiend.” Ecthelion drops his spear and raises both hands in defense. The microphones positioned around the arena pick up his voice, and Oropher is declared victorious.

~

When Oropher is back in the box (still armoured but with his weapons set aside) the other elves look at him in awe. Such strength has not been witnessed in Enlightenment before and it seems that Oropher can defeat just about anyone with brute force alone.

“That was awesome…” a man praises Gil-Galad, who smiles thinly and looks to Oropher.

“My Fae are nothing but perfection, you know. Do not expect anything less.”

Oropher looks at Gil-Galad and removes his helmet to feel a little less restricted.

 _“Is that it?”_ he signs, somewhat confused. “ _Is that meager sparring match all that this is?”_

An elf fluent in sign language translates in private for Gil-Galad, who shakes his head.

“You have two more matches for today until the Qualifiers are over. Do well and I shall reward you.” Gil-Galad speaks in Sindarin just for his little elf and Oropher nods. Two more games to play and then he can go hide somewhere on his own. Yes, that will not be too bad. Glorfindel will most likely not speak to him once he gets back to the manor. A bit of privacy is all he truly wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes Oropher is ridiculously strong (huhuhu it is a personal headcanon of mine that he was [REDACTED] he gon kill ppl lemao)  
> um yeah ANON IF YOU'RE READIN' THIS, comment if you want more. I honestly can't bring myself to post more of this crap on my own :X

**Author's Note:**

> gawd it was really hard for me to post this but um yeah if you liked it anon tell me of satisfy??? kek


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